


that’s only because you were hearing wrong.

by buffysummcrs



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Princess Bride, Badass Arya, Because he’s a literal disaster, Dark!Daenerys Targaryen, Dark!Jaime Lannister, Dark!Tyrion Lannister, F/M, Fluff, Gendry is Buttercup, Sansa gets into Sword Fights, kinda angsty, or basically early seasons Jaime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-08 19:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffysummcrs/pseuds/buffysummcrs
Summary: Handsome, flaxen-haired Gendry has fallen for Arya, the farm girl, and when she departs to make her fortune, he vows never to love another. So, when he hears that her ship has been captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, his heart is broken. But his charms draw the attention of the relentless Princess Daenerys who wants a husband and will go to any lengths to have Gendry. So starts a fairy tale like no other, of fencing, poison, true love, hate, revenge, snakes, spiders, chases, escapes, lies, truths, passion and miracles, and a damn fine story





	1. The Groom

The year that Gendry Baratheon was born, the most beautiful person in the world was a Dornish squire named Daemon. Daemon worked for the Prince Oberyn Martell, and it did not escape the Viper’s notice that someone extraordinary was tending to his armour. The Prince’s notice did not escape the notice of his paramour Ellaria Sand either, who may not have been as beautiful, or very rich, but was plenty smart. Ellaria set about studying Daemon and shortly found her adversary’s tragic flaw.

Arianne Martell.

Armed, Ellaria set to work. The Old Palace became Arianne’s new residence as she shadowed Ellaria. Daemon had never stood a chance. Inside a season, he was smitten with the young girl, and the Prince never glanced in his direction again without regret clouding his eyes. (Daemon, it might be noted, seemed only cheerier throughout his courting. He eventually married the beauty with olive skin and large, dark eyes and they lived together till age claimed them. It must also be noted that things did not fair as cheerily for the paramour. Oberyn, for reasons passing understanding, next became interested in a Knight which filled Ellaria with a fiery rage that presented itself as stomach pains.)

The year Gendry turned ten, the most beautiful person lived in Meereen, the daughter of a Grand Master. The girl’s name was Zalla, and her skin was of a dusky perfection unseen in Essos for eighty years. (There have only been twelve perfect complexions in all of Slaver’s Bay since accounting began.) Zalla was nineteen the year the city suffered the fire. The girl survived, even if her skin did not.

When Gendry was fifteen, Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, was easily the most beautiful. Margaery was twenty, and so far did she outdistance the world that it seemed she would be the most beautiful for many, many years. But then, one day, one of her suitors (she had several) exclaimed that without question Margaery must be the most ideal item yet spawned. Margaery, flattered, began to ponder on the truth of the statement. That night, after dining with her grandmother, she examined herself pore for pore in her mirror. It took her throughout the night to finish the inspection, but by that time it was clear to her that the young man had been quite correct in his assessment: she was, through no fault of her own, perfect.

As she strolled through the family rose gardens watching the sun rise, she felt happier than she had ever been. “Not only am I perfect,” she said to herself, “I am probably the first perfect person in the whole long history of the universe. How lucky I am to be perfect and rich and sought after and sensitive and young and…”

Young?

The mist was rising around her as Margaery began to think. Well of course I’ll always be sensitive, she thought, and I’ll always be rich, but I don’t quite see how I’m going to manage to always be young. And when I’m not young, how am I going to stay perfect? And if I’m not perfect, well, what else is there? What indeed? Margaery furrowed her brow in desperate thought. It was the first time in her life her brow had ever had to furrow, and Margaery gasped when she realized what she had done, horrified that she had somehow damaged it, perhaps permanently. She rushed back to her mirror and spent the morning, and although she managed to convince herself that she was still quite as perfect as ever, there was no question that she was not quite as happy as she had been.

She had begun to fret.

The first worry lines appeared within a fortnight; the first wrinkles within a month, and before the year was out, creases abounded. She married soon thereafter, the selfsame man who accused her of sublimity, and gave him merry hell for many years.

Gendry, at only fifteen, would have found this whole debacle unfathomable. Did people care if they were the most beautiful or not? Did it matter if you were third, sixth or eighth? Of course, at this stage, Gendry was barely in the top twenty and that was on potential primarily, not on any particular care he took of himself. His face was constantly scraped with dirt, and his hair was rarely combed through. But to him, his appearance was the bottom of his list of concerns. The list was concise: he cared about his horse and teasing the farm girl.

The horse’s name was “Horse” (Gendry was much too young and had much too little imagination when it was named) and it came when he called it, went where he steered it and did what he told it. The farm girl did what he told her too, with much less obedience. Actually, she was growing to be a more of a young woman now, but she had been merely a girl when she came to work for Gendry’s father, and he referred to her that way still.

“Farm Girl, fetch me this. Quickly, or I shall tell my father.”

”As you wish.”

That was all she ever answered. “As you wish.” The same hint of sarcasm each time. She lived out near the animals and, according to Gendry’s mother, she kept her belongings incredibly tidy. She even read when she could scrounge candles.

”I’ll leave the lass an acre in my will for what she’s done.” Gendry’s father Robert was fond of saying.

”You’ll spoil her,” his mother always tutted in response.

”She’s slaved for many years and hard work should be rewarded.” Then, rather than continue to argue (a particularly common occurrence), they would both turn on their son.

“You didn’t bathe,” his father would comment.

“I’ve been riding all day,” Gendry explained.

“You must bathe, Gendry,” his mother joined in. “The girls don’t like their boys to smell of stables.”

“Oh who gives a toss about the girls!” Gendry fairly exploded. “I do not. Horse loves me and that is quite sufficient, thank you.”

He said that speech loud, and he said it often.

But, like it or not, things were beginning to happen.

Shortly before his sixteenth birthday, Gendry realised that it had now been more than a month since any boy in the village had spoken to him. He had never much been close to them, so the change was nothing sharp, but at least before there were head nods exchanged when he rode through the village or along the cart tracks. But now, for no reason, there was nothing. A quick glance away as he approached, that was all. Gendry cornered Hot Pie one morning at the blacksmith’s and asked about the silence.

“I should think, after what you’ve done, you’d have the courtesy not to pretend to ask,” came from Hot Pie.

“And what have I done?”

“What? What?… You’ve stolen them.”

With that, Hot Pie fled, but Gendry understood; he knew who “them” was. The girls. The village girls.

The featherbrained, doe-eyed, constantly travelling in packs, giggling girls.

How could anybody accuse him of stealing them? Why would anybody want them anyway? What good were they? All they did was pester and vex and annoy. “Can I pet your horse, Gendry?” “Thank you, but the farm girl does that.” “Can I go riding with you, Gendry?” “Thank you, but I really do enjoy myself alone.” “You think you’re too good for anybody, don’t you, Gendry?” “No; no I don’t. I just like riding by myself, that’s all.”

But throughout his sixteenth year, even this kind of talk gave way to stammering and flushing and, at the very best, questions about the weather. “Do you think it’s going to rain, Gendry?” “I don’t think so; the sky is blue.” “Well, it might rain.” “Yes, I suppose it might.” “You think you’re too good for anybody, don’t you, Gendry?” “No, I just don’t think it’s going to rain, that’s all.”

At night, more often than not, they would congregate in the dark beyond his window and laugh about him. He ignored them. Usually the laughter would give way to insult. He paid them no mind. If they grew too damaging, the farm girl handled things, emerging silently from her hovel, thrashing a few of them, sending them flying.

“Not got somebody else’s sleep to disrupt?” She would yell. “Each bruise is a lesson, girls.” He never failed to thank her when she did this. 

“As you wish” was all she ever answered.

When Gendry was almost seventeen, a man in a carriage came to town and watched as he rode for provisions. He was still there on his return, peering out. He paid him no mind and, indeed, by himself he was not important. But he marked a turning point. Other men had gone out of their way to catch sight of him; other men had even ridden twenty miles for the privilege, as this man had. The importance here is that this was the first rich man who had bothered to do so, the first noble. And it was this man, whose name is lost to antiquity, who mentioned Gendry to the Lannisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A/N: After Season 8 provided us with Gendry saying the very well known “As you wish” line I decided I wanted to write these two as Buttercup and Westley. However, it was after the finale when Arya sails to travel west of Westeros I decided wouldn’t it make more sense if Arya was the Dread Pirate Roberts instead? It seems a much better character fit. So this was born. A BIG BIG credit of this goes to William Goldman who is a damn genius and the first part especially is taken entirely from his book. Also George R.R Martin for creating the wonderful characters. D&D can choke. ]


	2. The Farm Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handsome, flaxen-haired Gendry has fallen for Arya, the farm girl, and when she departs to make her fortune, he vows never to love another. So, when he hears that her ship has been captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts, his heart is broken. But his charms draw the attention of the relentless Princess Daenerys who wants a husband and will go to any lengths to have Gendry. So starts a fairy tale like no other, of fencing, poison, true love, hate, revenge, snakes, spiders, chases, escapes, lies, truths, passion and miracles, and a damn fine story.

The land of Westeros was set between Essos and whatever was west. In theory, it was ruled by King Aerys and his second wife, the Queen Rhaella. But in fact, the King was barely hanging on, could only rarely tell day from night, and basically spent his time in muttering. He was very old, every organ in his body had long since betrayed him, and most of his important decisions regarding the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros had a certain arbitrary quality that bothered many of the leading citizens.

Princess Daenerys actually ran things. After the deaths  of her older brothers, she became the most powerful woman in the land. As it was, nobody within a thousand miles wanted to mess with her.

The Lannisters was Princess Daenerys’ confidants. The three siblings were seemingly loyal to the Princess but truthfully loyal only to themselves. Only the youngest, Tyrion Lannister (The Imp, as his sister deemed him), pledged himself to Daenerys. The twins were much more unreliable in that sense. Cersei Lannister was considerably smarter than her brothers. All of her clothes came from her home at Casterly Rock and she had superb taste. (This was after taste, but only just. And since it was such a new thing, and since Cersei was likely the only lady in all Westeros to possess it, is it any wonder she was the leading hostess of the land?) Eventually, her passion for fabric and face paint caused her to settle permanently in Casterly Rock, leaving her brothers to take care of themselves. 

For now, she busied herself with simply sleeping on silk, eating on gold and being the single most feared and admired woman in Westerosian history. If she had figure faults, her clothes concealed them; if her face was less than divine, it was hard to tell once she got done applying substances.

“Quick—quick—come—” Gendry’s father stood in his farmhouse, staring out the window.

“Why?” This from the mother. She gave away nothing when it came to obedience.

The father made a quick finger point. “Look—”

“You look; you know how.” Gendry’s parents did not have exactly what you might call a happy marriage. All they ever dreamed of was leaving each other.

His father shrugged and went back to the window. “Ahhhh,” he said after a while. And a little later, again, “Ahhhh.”

Gendry’s mother glanced up briefly from her cooking.

“Such riches,” Gendry’s father said. “Glorious.”

His mother hesitated, then put her stew spoon down.

“The heart swells at the magnificence,” Gendry’s father muttered very loudly.

“What exactly is it, dumpling?” Gendry’s mother wanted to know.

“You look; you know how” was all he replied. (This was their thirty-third spat of the day and he was behind, thirteen to twenty, but he had made up a lot of distance since lunch, when it was seventeen to two against him.)

“Seven Hells,” the mother said, and came over to the window. A moment later she was going “Ahhh” right along with him.

They stood there, the two of them, tiny and awed.

From setting the dinner table, Gendry watched them.

“They must be going to meet Princess Daenerys someplace,” Gendry’s mother said.

The father nodded. “Hunting. That’s what the Princess does.”

“How lucky we are to have seen them pass by,” His mother said, and she took her husband’s hand.

The old man nodded. “Now I can die.”

She glanced at him. “Don’t.” Her tone was surprisingly tender, and probably she sensed how important he really was to her, because when he did die, two years further on, she went right after, and most of the people who knew her well agreed it was the sudden lack of opposition that undid her.

Gendry came close and stood behind them, staring over them, and soon he was gasping too, because the Lannister Twins, their younger brother and all their pages and soldiers and servants and courtiers and champions and carriages were passing by the cart track at the front of the farm.

The three stood in silence as the procession moved forward. Gendry’s father was a large mutt of a man who had always dreamed of living like Jaime Lannister. He had once been two miles from where the Lannister brothers and Daenerys had been hunting, and until this moment that had been the high point of his life. He was a terrible farmer, and not much of a husband either. There wasn’t really much in this world he excelled at, and he could never quite figure out how he happened to sire his son, but he knew, deep down, that it must have been some kind of wonderful mistake, the nature of which he had no intention of investigating.

Gendry’s mother was a gnarled shrimp of a woman, thorny and worrying, who had always dreamed of somehow just once being popular, like Cersei Lannister was said to be. She was a terrible cook, an even more limited housekeeper. How Gendry slid from her womb was, of course, beyond her. But she had been there when it happened; that was enough for her.

Gendry himself, standing a head over his mother, still holding the dinner dishes, still smelling of Horse, only wished that the great procession wasn’t quite so far away, so he could see if the Lannister twins were all that impressive.

As if in answer to his request, the procession turned and began entering the farm.

“Here?” Gendry’s father managed. “My God, why?”

Gendry’s mother whirled on him. “Did you forget to pay your taxes?”

“Even if I did, they wouldn’t need all that to collect them,” and he gestured toward the front of his farm, where now the Lannisters and all their pages and soldiers and servants and courtiers and champions and carriages were coming closer and closer. “What could they want to ask me about?” he said.

“Go see, go see,” Gendry’s mother told him.

“You go.”

“No. You. Please.”

“We’ll both go.”

They both went. Trembling…

“Cows,” Tyrion Lannister said, when they reached his golden carriage. “I would like to talk about your cows.” He spoke from inside, his dark face darkened by shadow.

“My cows?” Robert said.

“Yes. You see, I’m thinking of starting a little dairy of my own, and since your cows are known throughout the land as being Westeros’ finest, I thought I might pry your secrets from you.”

“My cows,” Gendry’s father managed to repeat, hoping he was not going mad. Because the truth was, and he knew it well, he had terrible cows. For years, nothing but complaints from the people in the village. If anyone else had had milk to sell, he would have been out of business in a minute. Now granted, things had improved since the farm girl had come to slave for him—the complaints were quite nonexistent now—but that didn’t make his the finest cows in Westeros. Still, you didn’t argue with a Lannister. Gendry’s father turned to his wife. “What would you say my secret is, my dear?” he asked.

“Oh, there are so many,” she said—she was no dummy, not when it came to the quality of their livestock.

“You two are childless, are you?” Cersei Lannister asked then.

“No, my lady,” the mother answered.

“Then let me see him,” Tyrion continued, “perhaps he will be quicker with his answers than his parents.”

“Gendry,” the father called, turning. “Come out please.”

He moved into view, hurrying from the house to his parents.

Tyrion left the carriage. He moved to the ground and stood very still. He was a dwarf of a man, with black hair and green eyes and a jutting forehead and a black cape and gloves.

“Bow, dear,” Gendry’s mother whispered.

Gendry did his best.

And the Lannister could not stop looking at him.

Understand now, he was barely rated in the top twenty; his hair was uncombed, unclean; his age was just seventeen, so there was still, in occasional places, the remains of baby fat. Nothing had been done to the child. Nothing was really there but potential.

But Tyrion still could not rip his eyes away.

“You would like to know the secrets behind our cows’ greatness, is that not correct, sir?” Gendry’s father said.

“Ask the farm girl; she tends them,” Gendry said.

“And is that the farm girl?” came a new voice from inside the carriage. Then the older brother’s face was framed in the carriage doorway.

His hair was a striking gold; his green eyes lined in black. The brightest shade of white was muted in his armour and cloak. Gendry wanted to shield his eyes from the brilliance.

Gendry’s father glanced back toward the lone figure peering around the corner of the house. “It is.”

“Bring her to me.” Then he called out: “You!” and pointed at the farm girl. “Come here.” His fingers snapped on “here.”

The farm girl reluctantly did as she was told.

And when she was close, the remaining Lannisters left the carriage.

When she was a few paces behind Gendry, she stopped, head properly bowed.

“Have you a name, farm girl?”

“Arya, Ser.”

“Well, Arya, perhaps you can help us with our problem.” Jaime crossed to her. The fabric of his cloak grazed her skin. “We are all of us here passionately interested in the subject of cows. We are practically reaching the point of frenzy, such is our curiosity. Why, do you suppose, Miss Arya, that the cows of this particular farm are the finest in all Westeros. What do you do to them?”

“I just feed them, Ser.”

“Well then, there it is, the mystery is solved, the secret out; we can all rest. Clearly, the magic is in Arya’s feeding. Show me how you do it, would you, Arya?”

“You want me to feed the cows for you, Ser?”

“Bright girl.”

“When?”

“Now will be soon enough,” and he held out his arm to her. “Lead me, Arya.”

She had no choice but to take his arm. Gently. “It’s behind the house; it’s terribly muddy back there. Your armour will be ruined.”

“I have seen much worse in this, Arya, and I burn to see you in action.”

So off they went to the cowshed.

Throughout all this, Tyrion and Cersei kept watching Gendry. .

“I’ll help you,” Gendry called after Arya.

“Perhaps I’d best see just how he does it,” the youngest decided.

“Strange things are happening,” Gendry’s parents said, and off they went too, bringing up the rear of the cow-feeding trip, watching Tyrion, who was watching their son, who was watching Jaime Lannister.

Who was watching young Arya.

“I couldn’t see what she did that was so special,” Robert said. “She just fed them.” This was after dinner now, and the family was alone again.

“They must like her personally. I had a cat once that only bloomed when I fed him. Maybe it’s the same kind of thing.” Gendry’s mother scraped the stew leavings into a bowl. “Here,” she said to her son. “Arya’s waiting by the back door; take her dinner.”

Gendry carried the bowl, opened the back door.

“Take it,” he said.

She nodded, smirking, and started off to her tree stump to eat.

“I didn’t excuse you, Farm Girl,” Gendry began. She stopped, turned back to him, eyebrows raised. “I don’t like what you’re doing with Horse. What you’re not doing with Horse is more to the point. I want him cleaned. Tonight. I want his hoofs varnished. Tonight. I want his tail plaited and his ears massaged. This very evening. I want his stables spotless. Now. I want him glistening, and if it takes you all night, it takes you all night.”

“As you wish.”

He slammed the door.

“I thought Horse had been looking very well, actually,” his father said.

Gendry said nothing.

He went to his room. He lay on his bed. He closed his eyes.

And Jaime Lannister was staring at Arya. .

Gendry got up from bed. He washed a little. He got into his nightshirt. He slipped between the sheets, snuggled down, closed his eyes.

Jaime was still staring at Arya!!

Gendry threw back the sheets, opened his door. He went to the sink by the stove and poured himself a cup of water. He drank it down. He poured another cup and rolled its coolness across her forehead. The feverish feeling was still there.

How feverish? He felt fine. He was seventeen, and not even a cavity. He dumped the water firmly into the sink, turned, marched back to his room, shut the door tight, went back to bed. He closed his eyes.

Jaime Lannister would not stop staring at Arya!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A/N: I didn’t get to say this in the first chapter but this whole fic is dedicated to Chris. She believes in my artistic talent way more than I do and I hope this can brighten her day when she needs it. ]


End file.
